


Bloodletting

by FallenGabriella



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ilyn is his own Warning, Meryll Deserves Better, Ouch, all i can say is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenGabriella/pseuds/FallenGabriella
Summary: Five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it.





	Bloodletting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGreyWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGreyWrites/gifts).



> Haha...Haha... Poor Meryll. No beta, no editing... Just raw, unfiltered madness.

A glance started it all. He didn’t see her face, didn’t have to. All he saw was a long train of chestnut, messy curls a haphazard wave down her back. Next is the pale, graceful column of her neck as she drags lean, skinny fingers through it. She was all odd angles and nonsense; from the frizzy, half falling bun she had formed at the base of her nape, to the still free flowing locks that managed to escape. An odd thought struck him. One he normally wouldn’t have bothered with… But he usually didn’t bother with looking at random women on the street either.

 _What was the point_? She’d traded one useless hairstyle for another. But an even stranger thing happened: Why did he care?

The second is a dinner party that he attended only to act as chaperone to the Lady Myrcella. Lord Tywin still didn’t trust her on her own, and certainly not when she could potentially be alone with her Dornish boyfriend. A necessary evil his Lordship tolerated only for the trades he could negotiate with the boy’s family. It didn’t help that the young Lady had made it known that she didn’t trust nor like her grandfather, finding his methods cruel and his punishments even worse… Something harsh forced the muscles in his mouth to quirk, forming a half smirk. If she were to somehow discover even a tenth of the things, he had done for Lord Tywin –

Well, she’d have more than a few thoughts about rebelling against him.

But there she was again. He knew her only by her glossy locks, now encased in sparkling gemstones and layers of silk. The curve of her neck, the sharp jut of bone appearing from beneath the lean line of her shoulders. The somewhat tan lines of her skin melded into a dress of crimson, lines of ivory tapering down her sides. His gaze skirted along her flank, a cumbersome bouquet blocking her face from sight. Something exited his nostrils that might have been a sigh, one formed of irritation as he slowly tilted his head to the left.

No, nothing there but the swerve of her cleavage, leading down an obviously toned physic. His mouth pinched downwards, his sudden annoyance with the scenery forgotten. He surveyed out the corner of his eye, insuring the Lady Myrcella had not escaped elsewhere. No, she had learned her lesson from the last time she’d run… She stayed in her seat, occasionally casting him a weary, cold glare made of emeralds, framed by the sun-cast rays her mother had gifted her. He swore he could see the beginnings of the same warped lines of age and fury cast upon her, solidifying her as the Lady Cersei’s daughter.

His gaze shifted even if his head did not. The young woman was talking with some young man or other, laughing at a joke that Ilyn could tell she didn’t find amusing in the slightest. She was too stiff, shoulders pulled too far back, and neck forming an almost awkward angle. He allowed his eyes to wander, taking in the long expanse of her waist to the floor… Heels, surely? Yes, though they were hardly as noteworthy as the daggers half the other ladies in attendance sported. He returned his attention to the Lady Myrcella for the rest of the evening.

The third time was indeed the charm. Her face was keen, her nose neither too small or too large, her eyes cat-line, and her lips… His brain immediately supplies ‘mischievous’. Both her personality and the way her mouth was formed to create the perfect smirk within seconds. Which begged the question of why she attended so many parties and always seemed as if she were about to be murdered by her own boredom…

He kept his distance, watching as she practically ran to a young, overweight woman with long black hair and large eyes. She spoke rapidly, her own irises blown, and the way her lips moved suggested she was speaking in a hurried tone. He would guess that she was hissing. The other Lady frowned, forming what he guessed was a sigh, and dragged her away.

The fourth was opportunity. He took it. Ilyn pretended to look at his phone, raising it up as if he were experiencing difficulty with the service, idly tapping at the surface. He didn’t leave until he had at least three photos of her. He studied them in depth, noting the discernable features, and placed her within a database that every private detective in the country would have killed for. It took ten minutes for the results.

Ilyn’s lips pulled back, a sneer disrupting the stonework of his face. Ah… A Frey. He didn’t know why he felt the subtlest twinge of surprise. There were probably well over a hundred of them now from the old Lord Frey’s loins, no doubt slowly seeding their way across all of Westeros. Now there really was a gruesome thought. The telltale pinprick of eyes upon him made his gaze flicker upwards.

Her phone slammed onto the table a touch too loudly, as did the curse that left her full lips. She turned, rapidly, facing the inside of her booth with a shuffle that was too fast. She hit her arm, causing her to drop her purse, and nearly spill her drink across the table. Ilyn raised a brow, watching her fumble and struggle like a deaf, blind idiot for the contents of her bag, which decided to empty itself across the floor. She half flailed, half crawled for a – Ilyn stopped the rolling cylinder with his boot, that same twinge at the corner of his lips forewarning a smirk. Her expression shifted into shock, horror, and then turned as red as the crimson coat of House Lannister’s field.

He stooped, picking up the tampon, and handed it back to her. She murmured a quick apology, torn between a squeak and a hiss. Ilyn left, knowing one photo would have been enough…

He kept them all.

The fifth is the most unprofessional he’s ever been. It was a quick job, easy, and without the necessity of a clean-up. It was impossible for him to botch such an assignment, its sheer simplicity so mundane that a chimp could have achieved it… Except, she was there. Two floors below, second window from the last. He could see her. Even better through the scope.

Black lace that obstructed so little, she may as well have not even been wearing any. Waves of her lustrous locks pooling around her, rippling with the crème bedsheets, and tangled with ropes of ivory silk. They wound over her, under her, bisecting here, and joining there. Tangled up, between her fingers, and around the bedpost. His teeth clicked together, the remnants of his tongue hot and fattened against his molars. Ilyn pulled away, head swerving on his shoulders till he felt the satisfying jolts of the vertebra popping. Soft and nearly nonexistent, the muscles contracting in a familiar rhythm that distracted him from the one forming in his trousers.

He lowered himself back into place. His target was already dead – what was he doing?

 _Why did it matter_?

Because the young man who climbed on the bed between her splayed thighs, with undoubtedly hot, _unscarred_ , **soft** hands didn’t need to be there. It wasn’t reflex. It couldn’t have been. Because he didn’t fail something as bad as an in-and-out job. Then why did the shot soundlessly penetrate his skull? Brain matter and gore splattered across the pristine bed, across her, across the wall. Ilyn blinked, chest shuddering with an inhale he wasn’t even aware of. His brow furrowed. No… It couldn’t have been him.

She was screaming. Horror replaced shock so easily… He mindlessly took apart the gun in record time, meticulous, just like always. He was out of the neighboring building, sightless and soundless, in less than three minutes. When he got home, he paused upon the threshold of his room. He continued on, entering his private domain; guns on the walls, ammunition, grenades. Ilyn flicked open the case with his thumb, grabbing the chamber with a morbid fascination that made his heart throb in his throat.

Four where there should have been five.


End file.
